


First Contact

by temporalDecay



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Peter and Yondu are the worst family in the history of ever, offhand spoilers for Captain America: Winter Soldier, offhand spoilers for Thor: The Dark World, surprising lack of climatic joint battles against super villains, the guardians meet the avengers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 18:39:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2783663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Yondu steals from Peter, Peter isn't trying to save his life (no, really), the Guardians are resigned about their leader's bizarre family dynamics, Tony wants his tower to <em>not</em> be destroyed for once, the Avengers take things too seriously and Darcy likes Groot best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Contact

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notavodkashot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notavodkashot/gifts).



> Silly gift fic for Rie, who loved Guardians more than any normal human being should love a movie, and who puts up with me more than she probably should.

“I could be in a bar right now, old man,” Peter groused darkly, trailing after the flock of Badoon ships gunning down Yondu’s. “I could be sipping on a neon pink drink with tiny yellow bobbling hats and maybe bet half my share on something ridiculous and fun.” 

Just like he’d been doing for the past _eternity and a half_. It was getting ridiculous, really. 

“Then go back to your glory shower, boy,” Yondu snarled over the communicator, “I didn’t ask for your help then and I ain’t asking now.” 

“Oh do you think I’m here to help you?” Peter snarled right back, rolling away from a barrage of enemy fire and twitching in annoyance. “Because I’m not! I couldn’t care less if they blow you up to smithereens, you hear!” 

“Ungrateful son of a—“ 

“Oh yes, let’s start down _that_ road, _again!_ ” 

“I should’ve—“ 

“I liberated an entire freakin’ planet, you _bastard_ —oh, hey Drax.” 

Peter grinned over at his burly friend, more so when he realized there was food awkwardly strapped over a tray in his hands. Considering they’d been on constant battle maneuvers across half the goddamn galaxy by then, the rest of the crew was adapting as they could to their current situation. They’d been on the bridge, at first, but when saving Yondu – that was not what Peter was trying to do, of course not, he just wanted back the goddamn statue Yondu stole from him in the first place, he couldn’t care less about the rest – became increasingly less straightforward – well, it was straightforward enough, destroy the Badoon ships, corner Yondu and shoot him down into a nice and pleasant planet where Peter could beat the tar out of him for being an _absolute fucking bastard_ and then take his statue and go back to the Collector, to get another obscene amount of money for their troubles – they’d retreated below deck to do… whatever is they did while Peter argued with his… Yondu over the com and flew them in increasingly erratic ways across their galaxy and a few others. 

“Don’t you dare ignore me, boy,” Yondu’s voice hissed at Peter over the speakers all around him, “not to play house with your ragtag bunch of frea—“ 

“It is time for sustenance,” Drax said, nodding solemnly when Peter unceremoniously muted Yondu. 

He wasn’t quite sure how the mechanics worked, in detail, but from what he’d managed to understand, it didn’t matter what Yondu Udonta said, or in what tone he said it, it would upset Peter greatly if Drax ripped out his spine and hung it over the _Milano_ ’s bridge like decoration. In his experience, parents were meant to cherish their children. To nurture them and love them and protect them from all harm. He didn’t quite understand why Peter had been so baffled and uncomfortable about it when he’d brought up the notion, loudly complaining that Yondu was **not** his father, thank you very much, and that’d he’d rather eat his own guns than call the old man _dad_. Rocket had tried to explain it to him, with small words and expressive hand gestures, but by the end of it all Drax agreed –as did all of his fellow Guardians – that Peter’s family was _weird_ , and that was about all they needed to worry about that. 

“Aww, yeah,” Peter said, beaming over Drax’s offerings, despite the fact they clearly showed that Gamora’s rationing of their supplies was forcing him to get… creative. “Food!” 

“Yes,” Drax replied, leaning against Rocket’s chair next to Peter’s and watching him wolf down his share without complaint. “I also bring a request, from our smart furry friend—“ 

“Oh, that ought to be good,” Peter snorted, chewed and spoke, all at once. 

Drax ignored it. 

“He says he will pilot the ship while you sleep so you do not fly us into a moon.” 

“A sun, Drax,” Rocket corrected, crawling up into the bridge with a snort. “I said a sun.” 

He hadn’t, Drax would remember. And he said so. But Rocket ignored him in favor of crawling up along his side to vault into his chair, and Drax was left sighing because he was getting better, he was, but Rocket was never gonna stop poking at him. Given their time together and everything he’d witnessed from how Rocket treated the others, Drax had arrived to the conclusion that was purely how their friend showed affection. 

“I’m fine,” Peter whined, licking blue goop off his fingers and shrugging. “Totally, man. Can do this for days.” 

“You have,” Rocket deadpanned, rolling his eyes and taking the controls with a smirk. “Drax, put our fearless leader in bed, will ya? And sit on him, so he stays there.” 

“What! No—“ 

“Yes,” Drax nodded sagely, “I shall.” 

“Rocket, that’s not—“ 

Peter spluttered as he was effortlessly plucked from his chair and thrown over Drax’s shoulder. Who then proceeded to take him away from the bridge, and presumably obey Rocket’s command. Rocket snickered under his breath and unmuted Yondu. 

“—and I will damn well _enjoy_ it, boy!” 

“Yondu,” Rocket said, pleasantly. 

“Kid,” Yondu saluted, almost cordially. 

Rocket didn’t exactly flinch. He rolled his eyes and opened fire on the ships still pursuing Yondu. 

“So are you ready to get your ass saved or not?” 

“Who needs saving?” Yondu grinned, nightmare of crooked teeth that made, despite it all, Rocket grin back. “I’m having the time of my life, here, kid.” 

  


* * *

  


Tony just wanted his super secret boy band to get through one day, just one day, without the tower being subjected to gross structural damage. One day, that was all he wanted, and he could die happy. 

Of course, given the state of affairs, he was about damn well contractually immortal at this point. 

“You’re the one who turns into a gigantic, green rage monster,” Tony said, poking Bruce in the ribs with a pen in a gesture that Bruce had learned to accept was Tony’s version of a hug. Because _Tony_. “If you half demolished my tower every day, I’d be okay. Occupational hazard and all. You’re in my insurance policy. Clause 46B – Hulk related damage, totally covered. You haven’t so much as broken a pipette, since you got here.” Tony poked him again. “Do you think that’s fair, Dr. Banner?” 

“I think…” Bruce began, choosing his words as carefully as he was choosing his chemicals, for this experiment. “That I told you that trying to keep us all together in one place was going to be _precarious_.” 

Tony huffed. 

“Well, what else was I supposed to do?” He asked, following Bruce around the lab like a despondent puppy. “Nat and Clint were out of a job, now that S.H.I.E.L.D. is ‘out of the picture’,” Bruce didn’t have to see him to know Tony was making the world’s most amazing airquotes ever, it carried in his tone. “Cap needed somewhere to crash after he and his friend Birdman crawled home from freakin’ _Saskatchewan_ with their trigger-happy, ex-evil, brainwashed not-really Soviet assassin friend and his bust arm that no one but the world’s greatest genius could fix.” Bruce scoffed very, very softly at that. Tony pounced on that sound and grinned like a loon, going over to lean on Bruce’s shoulder to look over at what he was doing as he continued his rant. “What kind of heartless monster would turn them away? And then there’s Thor.” Tony snorted. “Or rather, there’s Dr. Foster and the London mess. Was I supposed to just leave them on the street? Of course not.” 

“Such a generous, gracious leader you are,” Bruce mused with a sigh, watching the liquid in the test tube turn a decidedly familiar shade of green. 

“Yes,” Tony went on, “I am. I take them in, out of the goodness of my heart, no strings attached, no questions asked—“ 

“Oh, you asked questions,” Bruce snorted. “Loudly.” 

“ _Logistics_ questions,” Tony retorted, mock indignant, and then huffed. “Not _judging_ questions. This tower is a judgment-free zone.” 

“Unless it involves Nutella,” Bruce murmured, taking the tube to the containment unit where the rest were kept. “Apparently.” 

“Hey, Bruce, c’mon,” Tony whined, not even trying to pretend he wasn’t, “there’re things that are sacred. Like Thor’s hammer, literally, or my Nutella. Biblically holy and sanctified.” 

“Right.” 

“Right,” Tony agreed, despite the fact Bruce was not really agreeing, “besides—“ 

“Sir,” JARVIS’ voice echoed in the lab, derailing Tony’s tirade. “There appears to be a situation that requires your attention.” 

“Situation,” Tony deadpanned, “okay, JARVIS, lay it out on me, I can take it, how many floors need remodeling now?” 

Bruce hissed a quiet laugh that died abruptly when JARVIS said: 

“None, sir.” Tony and Bruce looked up at the ceiling, warily. “NASA and military radars confirm the presence of various objects quickly breaking through the atmosphere.” 

“By objects you mean chunks of the ISS falling from orbit or uncle Sam’s ‘weather balloons’?” 

“Ships, sir, six of them,” JARVIS went on, almost hesitantly. “Unlike anything available currently on planet.” 

There was a moment of silence. 

“Great,” Tony said, just a tad brusquely, “tell everyone to get ready to go say hi.” 

“Tony—“ Bruce began, frowning. 

“Chop chop, princess, we have a welcome party to organize.” 

  


* * *

  


They had, eventually, _finally_ , brought down the Badoon ships. Just not before they brought down Yondu’s – Peter’s friends flinched collectively at that, though Peter remained stubbornly stoic about it – and certainly not before they crossed Earth’s atmosphere. 

“You know, none of this would’ve happened if you’d kept your nose out of it, boy,” were the first words out of Yondu’s mouth, when they found him sitting on a pile of wreckage, fiddling with the – _their_ – statute. 

Gamora rolled her eyes. Drax tilted his head slightly to the side. Rocket rubbed his face with his paws. Peter spluttered. 

“Seriously,” he said, stomping over with a snarl, “ _seriously_.” 

The only one who didn’t seem particularly upset about the whole thing was Groot, who was hunched over a patch of flowers, inspecting them curiously. They had managed to land in the woods, some bits of which were clearly burning, but at least they’d avoided the major settlements around. The Guardians were very pointedly ignoring the fact this was Peter’s home world, because in the end they followed Peter’s lead and Peter seemed to be too busy resisting the urge to try and strangle Yondu to properly process where they were. He would, eventually, of course, and then they’d deal with it as it came. But in the meantime, they were more concerned with keeping Yondu from putting his little arrow through Peter’s throat. 

“I had it under control,” Yondu went on, sniffing disdainfully. “Had a plan and everything.” 

“You so did _not_ have a plan,” Peter snapped, resisting the urge to stomp his foot. He waved his guns around, as if debating whether to shoot to stun or kill with them. “You backstabbing, ungrateful, piece of—“ 

“Cost me a fine ship, too,” Yondu added, baring his teeth at Peter. “You be paying for that one, too.” 

“I ain’t paying for your stupid _ship_ ,” Peter gave up and stomped his foot. “You were the suicidal idiot who stole my loot—“ 

“Mine now,” Yondu pointed out, smugly. 

“And ran away on a lone ship,” Peter went on, undeterred, “what’s the point of having a goddamn fleet if you’re not gonna _use_ it?” 

“Had a plan,” Yondu insisted, shrugging. “You messed it up.” 

“I am Groot.” 

“ _I_ messed it up?” Peter kicked some dirt at Yondu’s feet. “ _I saved your life_. No,” Peter went on, over Yondu’s attempts to argue. “I flew across the galaxy for _days_ to save your dumb ass. And that’s after I liberated an entire goddamn planet!” 

“Truth be told,” Gamora ventured after a moment, “we might helped a little with that.” 

“I _am_ Groot.” 

“A little does not accurately describe our involvement in the cleansing of Badoon filth from that world,” Drax added, hands resting idly on his knives. “We fought bravely and arduously like the warriors of old lore.” 

“Yes,” Peter nodded, barely resisting the urge to grind his teeth, “we did. We have a previously undiscovered talent to free worlds from under the yoke of tyranny. But that’s not—“ 

“Lots of blowing shit up involved,” Rocket sighed dreamily, reminiscing on explosions past. 

“Well, that’s good and all, for you _Guardians of the Galaxy_ ,” Yondu sneered. “Me? ‘m a Ravager. Will always be a Ravager. And I follow the code.” He eyed Peter with a risen eyebrow. “Got a problem with that?” 

“ _Yes!_ ” Peter exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. “There is a problem with that, when you’re stealing from _us_ , anyway!” 

“I am _Groot_.” 

Truth be told, they probably could take Yondu. Probably. But not without things turning ugly first. The Guardians looked at their leader, waiting to take their cue from him. Peter’s family, as it has been previously established, was _weird_ and they didn’t exactly want to get caught up in the wrong side of the argument. So until Peter did something more forceful than wave his guns around and yell loudly in a tantrum, they’d be keeping their distance and waiting. 

The fact that Yondu hadn’t yet pulled back his coat or threaten to skewer Peter’s head was a plus, as well. 

For now, anyway. 

“Point is,” Yondu said, “ _I_ have the statue.” 

“ _My_ statue,” Peter interrupted, but was thoroughly ignored. 

“But no ship,” Yondu went on, looking pointedly at Peter in a way that implied the loss of his ship was solely Peter’s doing. “You have a ship, but no statue.” 

“No,” Peter said, flatly. “Uh huh, no way. You’re _not_ taking my ship.” 

The Guardians shifted, stepping closer. Because weird or not, family or not, they were quite interested in keeping the ship, as well. 

“Technically speaking it’s my ship, too,” Yondu pointed out, looking at his nails. “Since it’s a Ravager ship and all—“ 

“Rebuilt and custom made by the Nova Corps, so no dice,” Peter glowered. “My statue, my ship.” 

“And no one said anything about taking it, even though it’s technically mine,” Yondu smirked, “’cause I’m all nice like that. I think I’m gonna rent it.” 

“That’s—“ 

The ground exploded under Peter’s feet. 

  


* * *

  


The Avengers, plus Bucky – who refused to let Steve out of his brooding sight for more than five minutes at the time – and Sam – who took things on stride so well it was a damn super power by that point – and Rhodey – who refused to let Tony Stark and his ever growing merry band of assorted heroes, assassins and experiments gone so wrong they were good be the first human contact to greet their visitors – stood by the sidelines for a moment, taking in the scene. 

“Somehow I reckon it’s gonna be harder to tell the good guys from the bad guys this time around, Cap,” Sam mused, hovering next to Tony and Rhodey with a frown. 

“Well, we can’t just wait until they kill each other,” Steve said, eyes narrowed as the reptile-looking aliens duked it out heartily with the green woman, the blue man, the raccoon with the giant gun, the guy with the red-eyed helmet, the mountain of muscles and scars with the knives and the walking _tree_. 

Nat and Clint gave Steve a pointed look that perfectly telegraphed their thoughts on that idea. He ignored them, equally as pointedly. 

“I might be able to speak with them,” Thor offered, gripping his hammer tightly. “Make them cease their quarrel.” 

“Yeah, I say we go say hi,” Tony snorted, fingers twitching. “Either way.” 

“How about we don’t start another intergalactic war,” Rhodey deadpanned, resisting the urge to sit on Tony. 

“I don’t see why I’m here,” Bruce muttered quietly, “if there’s nothing to smash.” 

“Yet,” Tony quipped, and then flew into the brawl of screaming aliens before they could stop him. 

“Tony!” And then Rhodey was after him, mentally reviewing his life and his choices, _yet again_. 

“Containment,” Steve yelled, as he charged after Tony, “and no wars.” 

“Easier said than done,” Clint sighed, looking up at Sam. “Give a guy a ride?” 

“Sure,” Sam chuckled wryly, as he grabbed Clint’s hand, “support guy, that’s me. Support’s why I’m here, right?” 

As Sam placed Clint high on a tree, Bruce raised his hands with a shrug and dropped to sit on the dirt, sighing. 

“Let me know when you need something a tad stronger than containment,” he said, settling instead to watch rather than make things worse. 

“Let’s go get some toys to play with,” Natasha told Bucky, nodding at the weaponry being used. 

Bucky frowned for a moment, then nodded. 

“Let’s.” 

  


* * *

  


The Badoon didn’t really care if they were attacking the Guardians, Yondu or the newly arrived Avengers. The Guardians took the Avengers’ presence as a mild annoyance at best, at least until Steve’s shield knocked Peter on his ass when he tried to shoot down the Badoon commander. Particularly when Peter didn’t bounce right back onto his feet with a quirky one-liner and a smirk on his face. They were too busy roaring and going on a rampage against the Avengers to realize their fearless leader was okay and just clutching Captain America’s shield because he was trying to process the fact it was _Captain American’s shield_. 

Sure, last time he’d been on Earth there had been no flying armor guys who shot energy rays. Or guys with magic hammers that summoned lightning. Or guys with metal arms strong enough to punch Badoon soldiers up into the air with one hit. Or hot redheads – what was it about redheads, Peter mused, dazedly, probably because of the concussion the shield gave him – with magic taser bracelets. Or— 

“I AM GROOT!” Groot roared at Tony, as he shielded – snort – Steve, since the Cap was currently shield-less. 

Tony stared. 

“I am Ironman,” he replied sagely, and blasted at the giant plant tree _thing_ with his hand, nodding in satisfaction when an entire arm fell off. 

Then the raccoon shot him down. Tony careened across the clearing until a couple of trees kindly stopped him, and as his suit recalibrated and assessed the damage, he tried to process the fact that the damn _raccoon_ shot _him_ down. 

Before things could get worse – Bruce had stood up when he saw Tony fall and there was a distinct green pallor to his skin – Peter managed to get himself together enough to bounce back to his feet, still carrying the shield 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait!” He yelled, raising his arms. “Guys! _Stop!_ ” 

“You speak English?” Steve asked, staring as Peter shoved the shield into his hands. 

“Peter?” Gamora looked up from where she was at a standstill, with Bucky and Natasha. 

“He shot Groot!” Rocket snarled, cocking his gun as he glowered at Tony. 

“That’s freaking _Captain America_ ,” Peter said, snatching Rocket out of the way before Thor could flatten him with his hammer. “They’re the good guys!” He turned to the Avengers with a wide grin. “ _We’re_ the good guys!” 

“What is an America?” Drax wondered out loud, holding the brunt of the Badoon forces at bay, since his comrades were at the moment busy tumbling with the Avengers. 

“He speaks English?” Rhodey asked no one in particular, as the battle stopped in confusion. 

“Speak for yourself,” Yondu muttered under his breath, and whistled loud and sharp, using the pause to down the remaining Badoon forces without harming the Guardians or the Avengers in the process. 

Not that he gave a rat’s ass about Peter’s friends or anything, of course. He was just being efficient and handling one problem at the time. 

Of course. 

“Wait!” Peter yelled again, when the Avengers seemed to process the fact half the creatures in the clearing where suddenly dead, and circled the Guardians warily. Rocket squirmed out of his arms until he was hanging off his back, snarling over his shoulder at the Avengers. Peter folded away his mask to show his face, hands raised placatingly. “We’re the good guys!” 

“You’re human?” Thor demanded, scowling. 

“Mostly, yeah. Hi, big guy,” Peter chuckled nervously, waving. “Peter Quill, here, a.k.a. Star-Lord, leader of the Guardians of the Galaxy, who are, by the way, _the good guys_.” 

“ _I_ am **Groot** ,” Groot muttered sullenly, patting his singed shoulder. 

“Yes, exactly!” Peter nodded enthusiastically. “The good guys who _definitely_ don’t want to get shot.” 

“Good guys who will shoot _back_ if they get shot,” Rocket snarled, next to Peter’s head. 

Peter put a hand on his head and smiled nervously, wincing a little when Rocket bit him for his trouble. 

“Why don’t we all just calm down and talk this out like reasonable people?” 

Peter added a heart-melting smile to go with that plea, just in case, which kind of shriveled up and died into a facepalm when Drax saw fit to use the sudden silence and add: 

“Truly, Terra is a planet of legendary outlaws.” 

  


* * *

  


Maria Hill stared at Rhodey with a deadpan expression that would have made Fury proud. 

“Seriously,” she said, eyes going from his face to the files on her desk, to his eyes again. 

“Seriously,” Rhodey sighed, ignoring the headache pounding away between his ears. 

It was going to be an exceedingly long day. 

  


* * *

  


“ _In other news, spokeswoman Maria Hill apologized during a press release for the unexpected results of the latest clean energy flight technology tests by Stark Industries, which culminated in a small forest fire south of Scranton, Pennsylvania. There were no injuries reported on the—_ “ 

Tony turned off the TV as he walked to the bar, ignoring Steve’s sidelook. Behind them, Peter stared at the room curiously, cataloging what seemed familiar – that was definitely a couch Steve was sitting on, a freakin’ couch with freakin’ Captain America sitting on it – and everything that seemed out of a sci-fi movie. Granted, much of Peter’s life was straight out of a space opera and a sci-fi movie, but that was because he lived in _space_. This was Earth. Land of football and rock and _stuff_. 

“So!” Tony said, “Star-Lord.” He squinted a bit when Peter beamed eagerly, bringing to mind a puppy wagging its tail. “Drink?” 

“Sure,” Peter nodded and stood awkwardly, not sure he was allowed to sit down in the same room as _Captain America_. “Thanks.” 

“Great! Finally an alien who accepts the offer to be civil,” Tony mused, serving their drinks. 

“Technically, half alien,” Peter volunteered, shrugging. “I was actually born on Earth and all. But hey, I ain’t one to decline a drink.” 

“If you were born here,” Steve asked, as Tony ambled over with the glasses, “how did you end up with—“ 

“My team?” Peter grinned. “It’s a long story. Long, _heroic_ story.” He wiggled his eyebrows, taking a sip of his drink. “Man, this is _good stuff_.” 

“Stark stuff is the best stuff, Peter boy,” Tony grinned back, sitting on the armrest next to Steve. Would have sit on Steve’s arm, if Steve hadn’t moved it, too. Tony ignored Steve’s look and chugged back his own drink. “We like long stories, don’t we Cap?” 

Steve sighed. It was hard to not like Peter. He looked ridiculously young and unthreatening, and Steve’s gut said he wasn’t a bad person. But he’d seen what his companions were able to do, and there were many questions that needed answering, including what these… Guardians were planning to do on Earth. Or why they were there, in the first place. 

“Yes,” Steve said, after a moment. “We’d love to hear your story, Peter.” 

Peter beamed like Christmas had come early. 

“Well, there was this McGuffin…” 

  


* * *

  


“So who wants to call Coulson and tell him we got our asses kicked by a _tree_?” Clint asked, entering the safe house where Nat and Bucky were recovering while their extraterrestrial guests prowled around the hangar and the floor they’d been assigned in the tower. 

They weren’t shy, per se, but they were spies. And spies don’t like hanging out with glaringly unknown forces unless they know all the cards on the table. Besides, there were ears and eyes in Stark’s tower – it was always going to be Stark’s tower, no matter how much he tried to rebrand it; it was his castle and he ruled from it like a King, and more often than not, they took their orders from him, because he was not wrong, about most things – and some things needed to remain private. Some secrets weren’t theirs to share. 

“We didn’t _lose_ ,” Bucky muttered darkly, from his corner – because Bucky always found himself standing or sitting in a corner, where nothing could jump at him from behind. 

Nat and Clint had been there, once, so they pointedly didn’t point out he was doing it and carried on like it was nothing. After all, _they’d been there, before_. They knew what it was like. There was a certain kindred feeling they shared, by virtue of being some of the best people in the world, at killing other people. 

“Technically,” Nat agreed with him, smiling wryly. “But he’ll still want to know about the tree. And the fact it _talks_.” 

“And the raccoon,” Bucky mused with a small smirk, which was progress, definitely, “he’ll want to know about that, too.” 

“Who knows,” Clint snickered, “maybe that’ll be enough to make him drop the play.” 

“Coulson is not coming back,” Nat snorted, “not now that Fury’s off playing dead and there’s no one else to take responsibility for that stunt.” 

“The fact they needed that push says a lot about our founding members, doesn’t it?” Clint smiled sardonically, playing with a pocket knife. 

“Steve is one of our founding members,” Bucky said, scowling. 

“And Steve is wonderful,” Nat soothed without soothing, shrugging. “I can vouch for that, and that’s not something I do lightly. But still. There’s a reasonable chance the team’s going to fall apart, once they find out Coulson’s alive.” 

“Maybe Stark knows.” Bucky looked at them with narrowed eyes. “Maybe that’s why he’s taken us all in. He’s trying to build something that’ll survive that.” 

“That is so grossly over emotional,” Clint snickered, “and exactly the kind of thing Stark would do, if he knew.” 

“But we don’t know that he knows,” Nat insisted, frowning, because she liked Tony, she really did, but she also liked to think she had him figured out. 

“I’m still not calling Coulson,” Bucky declared after a moment, sinking back into his corner. “I don’t think he likes me anyway.” 

“Of course he likes you,” Clint grinned, “just ‘cause he doesn’t have trading cards for you to sign doesn’t mean he’s not going to adopt you.” He ignored the way Nat wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Learn to peep, Bucky my man, and Mama Coulson will cluck for you.” 

Bucky stared, uncomprehending. 

“Barton, you’re calling Coulson,” Nat ordered, shaking her head, “you’ve earned it after that horrible, horrible analogy I told you I never wanted to hear again.” 

“C’mon, Nat, it’s a rite of passage!” 

  


* * *

  


“What manner of contraption are you building now, friend?” 

“Something useful,” Rocket snorted, tugging at wires and metal bits. When Drax didn’t reply immediately, Rocket rolled his eyes. “It’s not a _bomb_ ,” he muttered to himself. There was a pause. “Yet, anyway.” 

“I thought you said—“ 

“Joke,” Rocket bit out, before Drax could finish the sentence. He shook his head, despairing at the fact he was, as per freakin’ usual, surrounded by idiots, and went back to fiddling with bits and pieces of scrap stuff lying around in the hangar. “I am building _you_ a translator, because it is exhaustingfying to run around repeating everything for you.” 

“I appreciate it,” Drax replied, sincerely. “I look forward to conversing with our new comrades without further complications.” 

“Just don’t get too chummy with them,” Rocket muttered angrily, “I don’t like the way the lot of them look at me.” 

“Once you are done, I shall explain to them how they must treat you,” Drax offered, smiling as he watched Rocket’s paws slowly pull something out of the seemingly useless scraps, “then if words are not enough, I will crush their skulls.” 

Rocket grunted, somewhat embarrassed, but did not protest when Drax reached out to scratch behind his left ear affectionately. 

  


* * *

  


“You gotta take it easy with these guys,” Sam said, walking down a corridor towards the lab, Rocket and Peter walking right beside him. “You understand? They’re good people, just, you know, wary, sometimes.” He gave Peter an amused smile. “Cap and Tony like you, though, so that’s a plus. I don’t remember last time those two actually agreed on liking someone who wasn’t Pepper.” 

“I am very likable,” Peter quipped, grinning. “Heroic and handsome and very, very likable.” 

Rocket snorted. 

“Yes, you are,” Sam agreed, smiling indulgently, “but the fact that you haven’t threatened to enslave humanity or destroy New York kinda helps, too.” 

“We don’t _enslave_ people,” Rocket bit out with a snort, though he was careful not to say anything about destroying things – he wasn’t quite sure what _New York_ was, but he was pretty sure he could destroy one if he put his mind to it – because so early on their partnership, he didn’t want to go around lying to people. At least not until he knew they’d believe him. “We literally just freed an enslaved planet.” 

“That’s us, alright!” Peter added, winking. “The good guys. Just like you, just on a… you know, galactic scale.” 

“Hey, I like you, okay,” Sam shrugged, “and at this point, considering all that’s happened, it’d be dumb of me to not at least accept the possibility that you’re telling the truth. But that’s a pretty big truth you’re carrying around, and I’m not the one who makes the call.” 

“Seriously, honestly, totally, good guys,” Peter said, as they stopped outside the lab. 

“Yeah,” Rocket muttered, salivating a little at all that tech just waiting for his paws to make it _awesome_ , “100% not dicks, us.” 

Peter giggled hysterically at that, which made Sam arch an eyebrow at him, but then the door was open and Tony was grinning at them. 

“So!” He said, “let’s talk logistics!” 

  


* * *

  


“Oh,” Pepper said, blinking a little as she found Gamora waiting for her in the lounge, because Tony had utterly failed to mention a crucial detail about these friends of his. Then she gave a mental shrug and plowed right along, because she hadn’t become the CEO of Stark Industries while dating Tony Stark (and Bruce Banner, quasiplatonically, by proxy) by being taken aback by bizarre things. Green lady in a killer miniskirt didn’t even register at this point, she was sure. “Tony told me you had a list of things you need to resupply your ship.” 

Gamora appreciated the efficient reaction and offered a small smile. 

“Yes,” she nodded, “besides fuel, the trip here sapped our supplies all the way down to the very basics.” 

“Are you in a hurry to leave?” Pepper wondered, head tilted to the side. Gamora stared at her. “I mean, Tony said Peter – his name _is_ Peter, right? Tony has a tendency to get fuzzy on the details, at times – that he was from Earth and it was his first trip in a long time, so I figured he might want to enjoy the sights for a little while longer. I also need an estimate of how much time I have to gather all these resources,” she added, pragmatically, because pragmatic seemed to be a thing that’d get her far, with Gamora’s no-nonsense expression. 

Gamora pondered her answer for a moment. 

“We’re not really in a hurry, but Peter – yes, his name is Peter – doesn’t seem interested in lingering,” she said, shrugging. “And besides, the rest of us aren’t exactly well-suited to enjoy the sights, as it were, considering Terra hasn’t been absorbed into the intergalactic community. It’s my job to restock the ship, so I just want to make sure that we’ll be ready, when Peter says the word.” 

“Fair enough,” Pepper smiled, unable to begrudge due diligence, “but I’m sure if you and your teammates want to enjoy the sights, we can figure something out.” 

Gamora smirked wryly. 

“Have you _met_ my team?” 

Pepper arched an eyebrow. 

“Have you met _mine_?” 

Gamora laughed and offered a hand. 

“Gamora.” 

Pepper took it with a smile. 

“Pepper.” She pulled out her tablet. “Now, about those supplies, why don’t we get a coffee and you give me the detailed list?” 

  


* * *

  


The tree was dancing. 

Natasha Romanov took a moment to process that sentence over and over again until she realized there was no other way to describe the swaying in time with the music and the arm waving. The tree was dancing. He wasn’t even that bad of a dancer, at that. Certainly better than Clint, but then, rocks were better dancers than Clint. 

But still, the tree was dancing, and it was ten feet tall and had curbstomped quite a few things in the battlefield, including her at some point, the other day, and yet somehow it was friggin’ _adorable_. 

“I am Groot,” it – he said, when she noticed her in the doorway, and beckoned her closer with the dopiest grin bark could manage. 

“Oh no, I don’t,” Nat raised her hands in surrender and smiled weakly, “dance. Not my style.” 

“I am Groot,” he insisted, and _then grew a flower on its palm_. 

Which he then plucked off and offered to her. 

Which was mildly horrifying if she stopped to think about it in terms of flesh, which of course she did, because that was who she was. But still. It was a nice flower, white and pretty. 

“Flowers, yeah,” she ventured, carefully taking the flower by the stem, “also not really my style.” 

“It’s alright,” and Nat nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of the voice, barely resisting the urge to attack. Gamora smiled at her, as if she hadn’t just sneaked on her without a problem. “Flowers and dancing grow on you, just like Groot does.” 

“I am Groot,” Groot beamed, growing and plucking another flower which he then offered Gamora. 

She took it with a grin and put it behind her ear, into her hair. 

“They didn’t exactly seemed your style either,” Nat pointed out, subtly holding her side, where Gamora had scored a hit in the middle of that whole Peter-is-Down-the-world-will- _pay_ rampage. “Before, I mean.” 

Gamora smiled wryly. 

“I find flowers and dancing much more to my liking, now,” she shrugged. “That hasn’t made me any less good at what I was, before.” 

“Clearly,” Nat smirked, “tea?” 

“That’d be lovely, yes.” 

  


* * *

  


Drax and Thor armwrestled. 

Then just flat out wrestled. 

Loudly. 

No one was surprised, nor seemed eager to stop them. 

Then they got drunk and did it all over again, and JARVIS had to inform Tony that the main gym was pretty much trashed. 

Tony took it in stride. 

  


* * *

  


“So what’s your deal?” Clint asked, sitting backwards on a chair and watching Yondu flip through channels on the big plasma screen in the rec room. 

Nat agreed with him, that while the rest of the quirky miniboss squad seemed mostly harmless, this one stood out like a sore thumb. And that was saying something, considering who the members of the aforementioned quirky miniboss squad were. Clint, being Clint, took it upon himself to figure it out, because even if Coulson wasn’t his boss anymore – technically, but their whole world thrived on technicalities after New York and London – he still found himself going along with whatever the little imaginary Coulson sitting on his shoulder said. 

“My deal,” Yondu repeated, arching an eyebrow at Clint and looking supremely nonplussed. 

Clint wondered if he was like Sam, and just not flipping his shit was his super power. Clint liked to call Sam the anti-Hulk, because his was shit that just couldn’t get flipped, no matter how hard one tried. And Clint had tried, because it was the principle of the whole thing. Yondu didn’t read exactly right, though, to Clint’s gut. Peter and the others seemed weird and bizarre, but over all they seemed like an okay bunch. Yondu looked like something out of a Clint Eastwood western with a mean smirk that implied his shit wasn’t so much unflappable as probably better off just _not_ flipped. 

“Yandu, right?” Clint ventured, going to perch on his usual seat. “Your name was conspicuously absent for Peter’s tirade about the concentrated awesomeness that are the Guardians.” 

Yondu snorted acidly. 

“Yondu,” he corrected, leaning back on the couch like it was a throne, and that didn’t sit well with Clint, because the last guy he’d met who liked thrones was a megalomaniac, genocidal bastard who scrambled his head with a whisk into stiff peaks. “Yondu Udonta,” Yondu smiled, smug, “and my deal is none of your business, kid.” 

“Well that’s too bad,” Clint chuckled, “because my deal involves booze. Lots of it.” 

Yondu gave him a mildly interested look. Clint grinned. 

“Good stuff, too.” 

  


* * *

  


“So _that’s_ a raccoon,” Rocket said, staring at the screen. He turned to Bruce with a loud snort. “What the hell are you all hairless apes babbling on about all the time? I look _nothing_ like one.” 

“It’s basic pattern recognition,” Bruce said, mildly. “When referencing from memory, one tends to focus on key similarities, and the brain tricks us into ignoring the glaring differences. You’re right, of course, you look nothing like a raccoon, but for people who haven’t actually seen one up close in a while, which I suspect is most people you’ve dealt with lately, the comparison is handy.” 

“The comparison is _insulting_ ,” Rocket snarled, baring his teeth. “I ain’t no furry forest critter. I ain’t a _thing_ or an _animal_ .” 

“I’m fairly sure the fact you can talk and shoot a gun bigger than you are tall pretty much cements that fact,” Bruce snorted, leaning on the table, arms folded. 

“Not as often as you’d think,” Rocket muttered after a moment, scowling. “And what about you?” 

“What about me?” Bruce blinked as Rocket bared his teeth. 

“I might not be an animal, but I got a good nose,” he said, leaning on the table, mimicking Bruce’s position. “Everyone smells like they’re gonna piss themselves, when they’re around you. Everyone except Stark, anyway, but that’s probably because he doesn’t have a sense of self preservation. He seems the type.” 

Bruce chuckled softly. 

“Let’s just say I’ve got a temper everyone’s learned by now it’s best to avoid it.” 

“Must be sucky,” Rocket said after a moment, feigning indifference, “having your own team be scared of you.” 

Bruce made a mental note to not take the furry guy lightly. He wasn’t just smart, obviously, but people-smart too. That was rare. And potentially very dangerous, if things went south. 

“It’s worse being afraid of yourself,” he admitted sincerely, “but I’m working on it.” 

  


* * *

  


“I _am_ Groot,” Groot said graciously, tilting his head as he took the glass from a bewildered Darcy. 

“You certainly are, big guy,” Darcy mused with a grin, watching him down it in one go. 

Which made sense, since he was all… leafy and barky. Not dog-barky, but tree-barky, and somewhere in the back of Darcy’s head a voice said she shouldn’t be this comfortable chatting with a giant humanoid tree that insisted on repeating the same three words over and over again in lieu of actual talking, because that wasn’t _normal_. Darcy ignored it because normal was boring and solely lacking in eyecandy, which she had plenty, living in the tower and hanging out with the world’s mightiest heroes. 

“I am Groot?” Groot asked politely – the tree was _polite_ , a hysterical part of Darcy mused in delight – as he eyed the pitcher still in her hands hopefully. 

“All the water you want,” Darcy grinned, “just do me a solid and don’t throw things down yelling about wanting more. Stark is enough of a bitch to take it out of our budget and then Jane would kill me.” 

“I am _Groot_ ,” Groot promised solemnly. 

“I know, right?” Darcy arched an eyebrow, “I’m too damn cute to die like that. But at this point the only job this internship has prepared me for is being Jane’s intern, so I might as well adapt.” 

“I am Groot,” Groot said, nodding sagely. 

  


* * *

  


“Look, Bucko,” Tony said, giving Bucky his best I-am-your-best-friend’s-friends-and-that-makes-us-friends-by-proxy-so-please-don’t-kill-me-and-hear-me-out look, “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important, okay.” 

“You want my arm,” Bucky repeated, as if saying it out loud could somehow make it less insane than it clearly was. 

Peter watched the scene with a strange sense of pride and weighted the pros and cons of letting Tony find out firsthand about Rocket’s sense of humor. He decided it against it, just as Bucky seemed to be about to agree to it, because they were guests at the Avenger’s tower, but that could easily turn into being prisoners, and he’d rather liked the lot of them. 

“Tony,” he said, walking up to them and valiantly ignoring Bucky’s glare, partly because he was starting to realize that a glare was Bucky’s standard look and partly because he was just that awesome. “Did Rocket ask for his arm?” 

“Yes?” Tony squinted at Peter’s grin. 

“Yeah, about that…” 

  


* * *

  


“That is not yours,” Gamora pointed out, when she found Yondu sitting on the counter of the main kitchen of the Avengers’ floors in the tower, eating Nutella by the spoonful. 

“Duly noted,” Yondu replied, noisily licking the spoon with a grin. 

“That means you should stop,” she elaborated, narrowing her eyes when he shrugged. 

“Never been really good at doing what I _should_ ,” he snorted. “Life’s more interesting that way.” 

“If by interesting you mean _short_ ,” Gamora snarled quietly, “you don’t have a ship, you don’t have an army, and if you think I’m gonna let Peter get himself killed to protect you, I—“ 

“I ain’t be needing a knee-biting brat to protect _me_ ,” Yondu laughed contemptuously, “nor an army to do what I need done. _That’s_ how I got an army in the first place.” 

There was a moment of terse silence, as they stared each other down. Gamora went through the motions in her head, how to incapacitate him before he drove that arrow through something lethal, and then— 

“Why did you take the statue?” She asked, swallowing hard. “You said it yourself, you _have_ an army. And yet you went for it alone.” 

“And why would I tell you that?” Yondu taunted, arching both eyebrows as he held the spoon between his teeth. 

“Because Peter would be heartbroken if I killed you,” Gamora replied, unflinching when he snorted derisively, “but if I need to, to protect him, I will kill you without a moment’s hesitation.” 

Yondu shrugged, unfazed. 

“You do what you need to do, pretty thing. And so will I.” 

  


* * *

  


“Oh wow,” Jane said, stopping at the doorway, when she found Drax sitting in the middle of the lab, “that’s a big knife. Wow.” She looked around and found Darcy explaining the nuance of why intern-intern relationships weren’t quite so successful to a very sympathetic-looking Groot. “Isn’t that a big knife, Darcy?” 

“Yep,” Darcy shrugged, and went back to Groot, “I told him saving my life was not going to be enough to justify trying to climb up the intern ladder by climbing _me_. And he got _mad_ , can you believe that? I mean, it was just a car. It wasn’t even that cool of a car, anyway.” 

“It is also very sharp,” Drax said, helpfully and with far more pride than Jane was comfortable with. 

“I am _Groot_.” 

“That’s, that’s great!” Jane said, awkward, because Drax was sitting between her and her work station and she was pondering how much she really needed to get to her research and input all the data the talking raccoon had given her – she was focusing on the data because otherwise there was focusing on the talking raccoon and down that path led madness. More madness than usual. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” 

“Why would you catch it?” Drax asked, slowly standing up and oh wow, Jane was not okay with that, wow, that was a huge guy, she wasn’t ready for this, she’d never been ready for any of this. Selvig had had the right idea, holing up in Finland writing children’s books instead of hanging out with super heroes every day. And the aliens. Muscle-y, scarred, scary aliens. “It is a word, it cannot be thrown for you to catch, it can only be spoken.” 

“Yes,” Jane agreed, nodding, “you are so very right, but I still don’t know your name.” 

“I am known as Drax, the destroyer,” Drax said, happily, and it was way too eerie, that smile, in conjunction with that title. 

Mostly because the last Destroyer Jane met curbstomped Thor into the ground and Jane was really, really attached to Thor. More so now than the last time he got curbstomped. And Thor was in control of all his power now, sure, but he could still get thrown around like everyone else. The Hulk did it often enough, that Jane had worked up the courage to write a very polite post-it note to Dr. Banner about it. 

“Well, that’s just… _lovely_ ,” she said, fumbling for the right word, giving up and resigning to whatever came to mind. 

“No,” Drax sighed, slumping his shoulders. “It is not.” 

_Oh boy_ , Jane thought, and decided to improvise in earnest. 

  


* * *

  


Under the pretense of stocking up the supplies Pepper had delivered them, they all gathered in the brig of the ship, away from microphones and spying AIs. Peter sat on his favorite chair and smirked at his team. 

“Thoughts on the Avengers?” 

The Guardians shared uncertain looks. 

“They seem honorable, worthwhile companions,” Drax offered, when the others hesitated to put their thoughts to words. 

Rocket shrugged. Gamora nodded in agreement. Groot smiled. 

“Yeah,” Peter nodded, “you can’t be the bad guys and have Captain freakin’ America in the lineup. So!” He frowned. “Thoughts on Yondu?” 

“He’s keeping it civil,” Gamora offered, plopping down into her own chair. “But he knows we’re up to something.” 

“He never puts the statue down, keeps it in his coat at all times,” Rocket added, wrinkling his nose. “And he hasn’t slept yet, not even once.” 

“Yondu doesn’t sleep, period,” Peter said, sighing theatrically, “good incentive to keep the rest of the Ravagers in line. It’s not easy stealing from the boss, more so when he’s always awake and waiting for someone to try.” 

“We could fight him for it,” Drax suggested, tentatively, “if it comes to that.” 

“No,” and although he tried to make it sound rational, there was a hint of something in Peter’s voice that let his team know he might never be ready to face Yondu on an actual fight. “No, our best bet is to take the statue without him noticing and then hightailing the hell out of here. Stark’s got the tech Yondu needs to call the Ravagers, which is not ideal, them being here, but you know, he’ll be probably be too pissed off at us to bother making a racket here.” 

“So, to recap,” Rocket mused with a snort, “we gotta steal a knickknack from the crazy bastard who loves knickknacks and never takes them off his person, who doesn’t sleep and who’s gonna outright try to kill us if he catches us trying to steal from him. _And_ we’ve got to somehow keep the goodie-goodie Avenger kids out of it.” 

“Yes,” Peter nodded, “that’s about it.” 

“Quill, your plans have always been the worst fucking thing and yet somehow they keep getting _worse_.” 

  


* * *

  


In the end they opted to get Yondu drunk. 

The fact the Avengers also got screaming, piss drunk was kind of a plus at that point. Gamora couldn’t actually get drunk, but she mimicked the worst of Rocket’s drunken number and drowned enough to leave most of the Avengers in the dust. Rocket and Peter were pretending to drink a lot more than they were actually drinking, while Drax sat in a corner and refused to explain why he wasn’t allowed to touch the stuff. (Peter promised him his weight in fine booze as soon as they got the damn statue back to the Collector, but not a drop before, because they really didn’t need a drunken Drax running around while they were trying to complete a job.) 

Still, as bodies piled up in a giggly, drunken stupor, Gamora, Thor, Steve, Bucky and Yondu found themselves sitting in the comfortable couch in front of the large plasma screen where _Footloose_ was playing. 

“We’re _nothing_ like Kevin Bacon,” Gamora said abruptly, looking over the backrest at where Peter was pretending to be passed out, waiting for her signal. 

“What?” Thor asked, swaying slightly in place, while Yondu cackled, one hand pressed hard on his face. 

“Another!” Gamora roared quickly, grinning in what she hoped was an intoxicated manner. 

Thor lit up like a Christmas tree. 

“ _Another!_ ” 

  


* * *

  


“Peter?” 

The Guardians froze in place at the sound of Steve’s voice. Rocket resisted the urge to swear as he balanced precariously above Yondu’s unconscious form, paws rummaging deep into the pockets of his coat. Gamora was pressed hard against the wall, not even breathing, while Groot and Drax were keeping guard over the pile of drunken humans. 

Peter looked up from where he was snatching a bottle of that nice, nice whiskey from Tony’s bar, and paled a little to find Captain freakin’ America standing behind him. 

“Uh, hi,” he said, turning around, grinning weakly. “Cap, Captain. _Steve_.” 

“What’s going on?” Steve asked, frowning, as Peter fumbled for a reasonable excuse. 

Groot’s wood creaked in the tense silence, and Peter realized that if Steve turned around and saw the Guardians looming over the passed out Avengers, things were going to get ugly. So he stopped him. The only way he could think of. 

Steve made a sound of surprise when Peter dragged him down into a kiss, tongue and all. It wasn’t more than a moment, but a moment was all Drax needed to hit him hard enough he went limp against Peter’s mouth and then pretty much slumped into the floor, unconscious. 

“ _Dude_ , you just took out Captain America,” Peter said, somewhat stupidly. 

“Dude,” Rocket mocked, snickering, “you just _kissed_ Captain America.” 

“Diversionary tactic!” Peter squeaked, spluttering. “Did you get the—“ 

“Let’s roll,” Rocket snapped, grinning. “Something tells me they ain’t staying down for long.” 

The doors locked down. 

“Seriously, JARVIS,” Peter groused, staring at the solid steel walls, “you’re not helping.” 

“I’m afraid I’m not inclined to help at the moment, sir,” the AI said, almost cheerfully. 

“We figured,” Gamora deadpanned, meeting Drax’s eye and nodding sharply. They kicked the door down together, sending the steel sheet flying. 

“Just tell Stark that once we’re done with this job, we’ll be obscenely rich,” Peter said, as he vaulted over the ruins of the doorway and down the corridor, towards the hangar. “We’ll come back and pay for the damages.” 

“We will?” Rocket asked, surprised. 

“I am Groot.” 

“Perhaps next time we shall join the Avengers in glorious battle!” 

“I was thinking more along the lines of being obnoxious tourists around the big sights on the planet,” Peter snorted, “but glorious battle’s cool, too.” 

They rushed to their ship, once the hangar was in sight. At some point, though none of them could tell exactly when, JARVIS seemed to have started the single most annoying alarm in the history of the universe. It howled in an ear-splitting tone, threatening to make their eardrums burst. The Guardians boarded the _Milano_ unceremoniously, scrambling for their places as Peter fired at the ceiling and created an opening big enough for the ship to zip by. 

“We’re never taking jobs for Tivan ever again,” Peter muttered, almost as an epiphany, as they hurried up against the atmosphere. 

“You said that last time,” Rocket pointed out, not even bothering to look at him. 

“Did I?” Peter blinked. 

“Verbatim,” Gamora confirmed, shrugging. 

“I am Groot.” 

“Huh,” Peter leaned back against his chair, “so _why_ did we take this job again?” 

“Ten billion units,” Rocket and Gamora chorused, minding their own controls. 

“Ah,” Peter nodded, “that’d be the ticket.” 

“You are _so_ drunk,” Rocket giggled, not quite wholly sober himself. 

“ _Dude_ ,” Peter grinned, wiggling his eyebrows at them all, “I kissed Captain America.” 

“No one ever explained what an America actually is,” Drax muttered to no one in particular. 

“I am Groot.” 

  


* * *

  


“Don’t hold it against the kid,” Yondu said, as a greeting, when the Avengers – hung over and somewhat disgruntled by the trail of destruction around the tower – found him lounging on the debris from the hole the _Milano_ shot through the ceiling of the hangar. “He just learned from the best.” 

Light poured through the hole, the same bright light that Thor recognized as the bifrost, only sharper and more focused, and certainly lacking Heimdall’s warmth. Yondu vanished along with it, grinning, and only then they noticed the large ship floating high above New York. It was considerably larger than the _Milano_ and it didn’t look anywhere near as friendly. It didn’t attack them, though. 

It turned around somewhat sluggishly, and then took off at a speed that belied its size. 

“Sir?” JARVIS muttered, against the stunned, outraged silence in the hangar, “Mr. Quill made quite the emphasis that he’d be back to pay his dues.” 

“Did he?” Tony smiled wryly. “I guess we’re just gonna have to be ready, for when he does.” 

  


* * *

  


“It’s empty,” Tivan said, thinning his lips as he studied their prize. “Or more accurately, it contains nothing of worth.” 

Peter stared at the tiny troll doll casually stuck inside the statue that Tivan carelessly threw aside. 

“You asked for the statue and we got you the statue,” Gamora said darkly, scowling. “You never specified there had to be something inside the statue.” 

“I am not backing out of our deal, my Lady Gamora,” Tivan replied, giving her a long sidelook. “The statue itself is a worthwhile addition to my collection, just not as worthwhile as what it once contained.” He put the statue in the hands of his attendant. “I asked and you did deliver, and in such tidy timing, as well. You must be paid, of course. Good procurers like yourselves are in rather shortage these days.” 

“Great,” Peter grinned, then frowned. “Hey, do you mind if I--?” 

“It has absolutely no value to me,” Tivan snorted, shooing at Peter, who reclaimed his troll doll with a great deal of glee. “Now rest, stock up supplies and be on your way. When I have need of you, you will know.” 

  


* * *

  


Coulson looked at the report on his desk. 

He looked at Clint. 

He looked back at the report. 

Clint shrugged eloquently. 

  


* * *

  


“You’re late,” Yondu said, as the glowing figure approached him. He threw the containment sphere at the creature, grinning with crooked teeth. “As per fucking usual. There’s your loot.” 

“I showed up, didn’t I?” The man – it sounded like a man – said darkly, cracking open the sphere to reveal a green stone glimmering within it. “That’s far more than could be said about you on our last meeting, Yondu Udonta. I sent you to fetch my son—“ 

“Let’s just get one thing clear, you and I, Warlock,” Yondu scowled, “he’s _not_ your son. You got your pretty stone, and as far as I’m concerned that makes us even.” 

The man of light, who was slowly becoming more and more solid, laughed at Yondu’s words. 

“We’ll see whose son he is, my friend, when the time comes.” 


End file.
